


The Accidental Bull Flip

by MalMuses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accountant Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Biker Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel rides a motorcycle, Castiel rides mechanical bulls, Choking, Dean is a Workaholic, Dean is a mess, Dean rides a mechanical bull for the first time, Dean wants to be Castiel's good boy, Dean wears a trench coat, Dom Castiel/Sub Dean Winchester, Endgame Destiel, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Porn With Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Strangers to Lovers, flipped tropes, idiots to lovers, mechanical bulls, very minor angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 21:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20553053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses
Summary: Dean Winchester was proud of everything he’d achieved—they don’t just hand out Senior Accountant positions at Sandover International, after all. He didn’t need a social life, or a partner to fill his empty house.One night, dragged out to a rough bar by his well-meaning brother, he ended up on a collision course with a snarky, cocky biker named Cas—quite literally.Thrown off a mechanical bull and straight into Dean, Cas was merely a hot stranger Dean never thought he’d see again, except perhaps in his fantasies…





	The Accidental Bull Flip

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello!
> 
> Today's fic offering is a story written for [CasDean FlipFest](https://casdeanflipfest.tumblr.com/). It was a super fun challenge to work on! I love my tropes, so being given free rein to flip them over was fun.
> 
> Special thanks to CR_Noble, jscribbles, Redamber79, SOBS, kitty, and EllenOfOz. You're all stars who have in some way motivated, beta'd or helped me get through this fic, so thank you! (And if I missed anybody, I'm sorry.)
> 
> My main thank you has to go to my amazing artist, [Hitori Alouette](https://hitori-alouette.tumblr.com/). Working with you was lovely... its always nice to be paired with an artist who not only is incredibly talented, but is a sweet and wonderful person! Thank you so much!
> 
> Please go check out her art master post[ here!](https://hitori-alouette.tumblr.com/post/187556127208/title-the-accidental-bull-flip-author-malmuses)
> 
> As always, please check the tags, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- Mal <3

“It’s really not that bad,” Sam insisted. “It’s just a bar, and the prices are great. You should come with us.”

Dean sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. His fingers returned to his keyboard, clacking swiftly across the keys as he responded to his brother, who he had on speakerphone. “I really don’t know if I have time, and it’s just not my thing—”

“You need to get out of your comfort zone sometimes,” Sam encouraged. A car door slammed on the other end of the line, signifying the end of his brother’s journey home to his wife, Jess. 

“Coming from you, mister brown-bread?” Dean grumbled indignantly. “Practically an insult there, Sammy.”

“It’s just one night, Dean. You spend too much time at the office.”

That part at least, Dean knew to be true. His job as a Senior Accountant for Kansas City’s biggest import/export business certainly did take up a lot of his week. Perhaps not all of it… but staying at his desk and putting in the extra hours of work to add to his  _ Employee of the Month _ frame collection was a distraction from his achingly empty house. Not that he’d say as much to Sam—his brother would be on him in a flash to get out even more if he admitted to that. Which he really didn’t have time for.

“It’s budget season, I need to get every department’s figures straight before they go to Adler.”

“Gross,” Sam said, keys jingling across the line as he wrestled with his front door. “Wash out your mouth, I don’t want to hear crap like that. Come have a drink with me, or I’ll head over to the Sandover building and steal your favorite calculator. Again.”

Dean bristled. He knew better than to think his brother’s words were an idle threat; Sam had done it before. And it really was his favorite calculator—the buttons were nicely smooth and satisfyingly clicky, and he hardly ever mis-keyed a number on it. 

“Bitch.” Dean sighed, giving up.

“Jerk. See you at eight.”

Looking at the clock, Dean figured he had time to squeeze in one more departmental budget check before he’d have to bolt out the door to get to the Roadhouse on time. Sam would probably roll out bitchface number thirteen at the fact he was still in his suit, but screw him. The fact that Dean was even going to the bar instead of working late was momentous. Sam could suck a lemon.

He focused on his numbers and time passed so quickly he was definitely going to be late. Shit.

And it was raining. Of course it was raining.

Dean dashed down the street with his briefcase held above his head, his old beige trench coat flapping wildly around his legs in the stiff breeze that had picked up. The bad weather must have arrived suddenly, as he’d dashed down the road to Michael’s Sweet Treats at lunch to grab a sandwich and a pastry in delightful autumn sunshine. Up on the forty-fourth floor, he hadn’t even registered the gathering storm clouds. 

Slamming the door of his car firmly, Dean slid his dripping work bag onto the passenger seat. It dribbled the remains of the rainstorm onto the upholstery for a moment before Dean picked it back up, jamming it down into the footwell. The car had belonged to his mom; he may not have much knowledge of how to take care of the old thing, but he should at least try better than that.

Dean had actually, secretly, always wished he could do more with his hands. But he hadn’t had the opportunity to learn those kinds of skills while he was working at Sandover. There was a time when he’d wanted a family of his own and he’d thought that earning big bucks to provide for them would be a boon. That hopeless desire had fizzled out by the time he reached forty. If all he could be was an accountant, damn it, he’d be good at it. 

By the time he pulled into the Roadhouse, the storm was breaking overhead. White lightning tore the sky, illuminating the bar’s worn roof and reflecting flashes into the dark puddles underfoot. The parking lot was packed despite the weather—the bar was popular with a certain crowd. Not really Dean’s crowd—or at least, his work crowd. His family crowd was certainly a little rougher around the edges than Adler, Novak, and Roman.

A wood-paneled, L-shaped bar took up one corner of the room. There were booths along one wall, and a cleared space somewhat resembling a dance floor. In between, toward the end of the bar, there was an ancient looking mechanical bull that various scary-looking members of the local populace gathered near. A dart board and an old jukebox finished up the place, cementing its dive-bar status.

Sam was waving to him from across the room, where he was squashed into a booth with his pretty blond wife. Dean began to make his way over. He was momentarily distracted—not that he’d have admitted it—by a startlingly beautiful man in a black leather jacket, passing a glass of something to a friend before he straddled the mechanical bull. 

The way his body rocked in perfect time with the machine was mesmerizing, his toned muscles on display as his shirt rucked up beneath his jacket, pulled up by his single raised arm, whooping with delight—

“Dean!” Jess greeted him with a tight hug. “So glad you could come out and join us!”

“Yeah, me too,” Dean said warmly. He really was happy to see them—he wasn’t an asshole. Well, not much of a one. Just a busy asshole.

“Dean.” Sam inclined his head and slapped him on the shoulder. “How about a drink?”

“I’ll get the first one,” Dean offered. “I’m already standing up.”

He turned and began to meander his way back across the room. He was swiftly reminded that the Roadhouse wasn’t somewhere to bring business clients to lunch by the fact that he had to step around a short, mouthy blond woman tossing knives at the dart board in order to get to the bar. 

Three Coronas in hand, he had barely rounded the edge of the bar again when—

_ OOF! _

There was a moment where he registered surprise, but then before he knew what was happening, Dean was flat on his back, beer everywhere, a heavy weight sprawled across him.

Objectively, Dean knew that the man who had been riding the mechanical bull—quite drunkenly—had just let go a little awkwardly, and had been thrown far enough that he cleared the foam floor and crashed into Dean instead. 

It felt more like he’d been hit by an eighteen-wheeler, but he tried to man-up and brush it off.

“What the HELL,” he yelled, feeling chilled beer soaking into his white shirt. There was a rogue lime quarter sitting on his tie, he registered.

“Shit.” The weight across his lower half groaned. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” 

Eyes blue enough to drown a man came up from Dean’s crotch level, catching his gaze. The man looked like he’d fallen from grace and right into Dean’s lap… but if those eyes belonged to an angel, the just-fucked hair and the wanna-get-fucked smirk belonged to the devil. Jesus Christ, Dean quickly prayed. This man was a sexuality all of his own.

“Uh,” said Dean eloquently.

“I let go,” the man said, accurate but rather redundant.

“Let me help you up,” Dean responded, before his brain properly processed anything.

“Help me up?” The guy looked very pointedly down to where he was still pinning Dean to the ground, slowly rolling his shoulders as he eased his—no doubt bruised—body up off Dean’s legs. “Not sure how you’d manage that. Unless, of course,” he added with a twinkle in his ocean eyes, “you meant some other version of ‘help me up.’”

Dean  _ felt _ his face burn.

“Oh—I—fuck, sorry, that was a dumb thing to say. I just meant—”

The laugh that tumbled down from above Dean, where the guy was now standing, extending a hand down to him, was deep and rich. It was the kind of laugh that crinkled eyes and rumbled chests, and Dean longed to know how it  _ felt. _

“Come on,” Dean’s wet dream said, “let me at least replace your drinks. I really am sorry.”

As Dean clambered up the forlorn lime dropped to the floor, joining its friends in the puddle of beer. A fierce looking woman arrived on the scene with a mop, and Dean noticed that the tall, muscled stranger who’d sent him flying looked oddly cowed in her presence.

“Why,” the woman began tartly as she mopped, “are you always wherever the trouble is, boy?”

The dude was clearly around Dean’s own age and nowhere near a boy, but he lowered his gaze apologetically, shrugging his black-leather shoulders. “Just a bad sort, I guess. I’ll get the mess, Ellen. I’m sorry.”

As the man reached for the mop, Dean considered that he didn’t seem like that much of a bad sort at all, but of course, he didn’t say anything.

Without another word to Dean, the guy made quick work of mopping up the spilled beer. Dean was about to offer his help when Sam and Jess appeared at his side. 

“Dean!” Sam sounded genuinely worried. “Are you okay? You could have been genuinely hurt—”

Dean was too late to stop the glare that his brother threw across at his accidental assailant. 

Done mopping, he straightened up, frowning and looking quite offended, before taking a deliberate step toward Sam.

“Woah, okay—” Dean found himself quickly stepping in front of Sam, giving the guy an apologetic grin. “It was clearly an accident, okay? No need to worry about any of it. In fact, don’t even worry about the beer, I think we’ll get going, right Sam?”

Sam frowned but followed Dean’s lead. “Yeah, I guess we should get you home so you can change out of your wet clothes,” he agreed.

With his hand on the base of his wife’s back, Sam ushered Jess away from the sticky bar and pointed them toward the door. Dean went to follow, but couldn’t help himself but look back at the gorgeous man in the leather jacket.

“Are you okay? You crashed into me pretty hard.”

“Yeah, I’ve had plenty worse than a few bruises. Thanks though. So—we’re good? I don’t mind buying the beers…”

Dean shook his head. “It’s fine, really. I’m going to go change, like my brother said.”

“Alright. Well, have a good night.” The man ducked his head briefly before turning around and heading back toward the mechanical bull, where a huge—and Dean would admit to himself, slightly terrifying looking—crowd of studded, rowdy biker-types awaited him.

Straightening his soggy blue tie, Dean headed off after Sam.

///

When Dean got home, he peeled off his sticky shirt, eyeing the beer stains critically. Deciding that they probably wouldn’t be permanent, he threw the damp garment straight into the washing machine and trudged upstairs to take a shower. 

His skin felt gross, so he turned up the heat and took his time, soaping up well to wash away the tacky feeling all over his chest and stomach. When he was clean, he eased off on the heat just a little, standing directly under the powerful spray and closing his eyes. Sliding his hand down his front, it was easy to summon up the memory of the Mechanical Bull Guy, remembering his unbelievably blue eyes, his dark-brown tufts of hair that just cried out for fingers to tug at them, his pink, pouty lips. His weight against Dean’s body as he’d sprawled momentarily across him. 

Dean’s hands drifted, the stress of his day crowded out of his muscles as it was replaced with a different kind of tension. 

The man had been gorgeous, no doubt about it, but his voice—deep, throbbing, commanding, even on the simplest, most innocent of words. Dean wished he’d been able to hear more of it—other phrases entirely.  _ On your knees. Please me. Not until I say you can, Dean… _

Under the warm water, it only took moments for Dean to stroke himself to full hardness. He imagined a gravelly voice and blue, blue eyes; his heart raced, his blood pressure spiked, warmth bloomed behind his bellybutton, sensation building. Shameless as much as powerless, Dean simply let his mind wander, recalling the way the corner of Bull Guy’s eyes wrinkled with that grin—that grin belonged to a demon, Dean was certain, and the memory of it sent him hurtling toward the edge of pleasure.

_ Come for me, there’s a good boy… _

One hand splayed out on the shower wall, Dean shook, his stomach muscles clenching and rolling involuntarily as he cried out, coating the tiles.

A soft, fizzing gush of relaxation tingled through his core and out, filling him right to the tips of his toes and behind his eyes. He hadn’t seen a man that sexy in a long time—if ever—and it was good, very good.

But, he reasoned as he stepped out into the chill air of his empty house once more, grabbing a towel to rub himself down, he didn’t know the man at all. He hadn’t even got his name. As hot as he was, Dean would forget him soon—and that was probably for the best.

///

It would be a lie for Dean to say he didn’t think about the mechanical bull man at least a little more. After all, it’s not every day you get literally knocked off your feet by the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. But it was clear they didn’t exactly travel in the same circles, and Sam had suddenly developed quite an aversion to the bar he’d been so insistent that they visit. 

If Dean’s thoughts and hands strayed in that direction once or twice more while he was in the shower, imagining how it would feel and sound to be possessed by such a man… well, that was between him and his maker, he figured.

If his mind tossed around the idea of stopping back at the Roadhouse one night after work, just for a casual beer by himself, no one needed to know.

But after a few days, he let it go. So what if the guy was hot—what the hell would he see in a middle-class workaholic like Dean, other than a convenient cushion for his crash landings?

He threw himself right back into work, as always, and weeks flew by.

He’d been so wrapped up in making sure the closing figures for Sandover's budget season were no less than perfect that he forgot to take his Chevy into the shop for its regular service.

Dean remembered that as he was driving home from work late one night. The sky was dark, thick clouds obscuring the efforts at light that the full moon was making. The wind was icy, winter setting in, and Dean would have bet his  _ World’s Best Accountant  _ mug that it was about to rain. Baby, the name that his mother had affectionately given the car, usually ran like a dream, but only thanks to the amount that Dean spent on her down at Singer Auto in the city.

The ’67 Impala had made a strange rattling noise as he started her up. Uh oh. Dean hoped against hope that he could persuade Baby to get him home. He spoke to her in soothing tones, promising to learn to better care for her, and eased her out from the Sandover parking lot, aiming for home. 

Dean had a peaceful couple of acres out beyond the city. The twenty-minute commute wasn’t that bad at all, and he’d quickly tired of living within the city itself as a young guy—so when Sam had moved out to live with his now-wife Jess, he’d saved up every extra penny he had and moved out to the country. The place was slightly ramshackle but he loved it. He didn’t have a partner or kids to share it with, but he could still sit on his deck with coffee in the mornings and watch the sun rise over his own land. That felt good, even alone. If he’d often still rather be at the office just so he didn’t have to contemplate how empty it was, that was no one’s business.

“Come on, Baby,” he whispered down to the wheel as storm clouds gathered overhead. “Just get me home, okay? I can call a mechanic in the morning, just please get me home…”

In response, she rattled louder. A pitiful grinding noise joined the orchestra. Fuck.

He was driving through the not-so-good part of town, a mile or two out past the Roadhouse, when she gave a hiccupping splutter.

There was a loud  _ clank _ . Smoke. A distinct lack of power.

_ “Fuck!” _ Dean smacked the heel of his hand against the leather-wrapped steering wheel. He managed to coast her into the side of the road as she sighed and hissed dejectedly at him.

Sighing deeply, he opened the driver’s side door and stepped out onto the tarmac. The road was deserted. In the moment, he wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing or, given the area, a really good thing. 

Popping the hood, Dean took a moment to shake off his suit jacket and lay it over the top of the open door he’d climbed from, not wanting to get it too dirty. He rolled up his sleeves and tried to wave away some of the black smoke that still curled dejectedly from between Baby’s most private parts. 

“Sorry, girl,” he muttered under his breath. He knew his mom, Mary, would be turning in her grave. “I promise I’ll take better care of you. I just need more time—”

Dean’s words cut off sharply as the Heaven’s opened.

“ _ FUCK! _ ” he yowled again, throwing his arms up angrily. 

He was drenched in two seconds, water sluicing off his nose, rivers tracking straight down the sides of his neck and under his collar. His white shirt was plastered to him, entirely see through. His hair slicked straight to his head like he was stood in the shower, and he reached up to push it back off his temples with chilled, dripping hands. 

Entirely miserable, Dean squelched around to the door, grabbing the sodden lump that his suit jacket had become and flinging it furiously into the footwell opposite him. He didn’t want to sit down in the car, as wet as he was, so he reached inside and slapped his hand along the dashboard until he reached his phone, rain streaming into his eyes.

He tried to protect his iPhone from the storm by ducking his head into the car as he called Sam.

The phone rang and rang. Voicemail.

Cutting it off, he tried again.

“Hey, you’ve reached Sam Winchester, please leave—”

And again.

“Hey, you’ve reached Sam—”

“Hey, you’ve—”

“Ahhhhh!” Dean yelled in frustration as he hurled the phone down into the driver’s seat. He didn’t know anyone else to call. He’d lived in Kansas all his life, in the city ever since college, but everything was work. And his colleagues, as much as he got on well with everyone in a boardroom capacity, weren’t really the sort of people you’d call if you were stranded in the rain.

Leaning back, Dean pushed his hair away from his forehead once more, tilting his face upwards so that the raindrops fell directly on his skin. Eyes squeezed tightly shut, he tried to think. Okay, Sam wasn’t answering. Jess would be at work at the hospital but maybe she could get ahold of Sam somehow, or would know where he was, Dean reasoned. He picked up the phone again.

A rich, throaty rumbling sounded along the road behind him as he reached his sister-in-law’s answerphone. Shit.

“Hey Jess, it’s Dean. I’m stranded and I really need to get ahold of Sam—can you give me a call back if you have any idea where he’s at?”

Dean knew Sam was probably just working late at the State Attorney’s office, but really, what a day for it. 

The rumbling grew louder between the peals of thunder, before beginning to slow down. From the corner of Dean’s eye, he made out the shape of a tall figure on a motorbike, the metal gleaming in the erratic, wet moonlight.

Dean allowed his head to slump forward against the frame of the Chevy as he stood next to it, door open.  _ Son of a bitch _ , he thought.  _ Now I’m probably gonna get mugged.  _

Instead, there was some splashing as someone approached, and a hand wrapped over his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” A man’s voice called over the noise of the storm. 

Dean turned, and even in the dim yellow light from the interior of the Impala, the biker’s eyes gleamed like sapphires. “It’s you,” he said, surprised. 

The eyes blinked, before flooding with recognition. “You’re the dude I flattened at the Roadhouse!”

“Yup. The one and only. Or at least, I hope so.”

That low, captivating laugh caught Dean again, and it was closer this time as the man leaned in to be heard over the storm.

“Yeah, that has only happened the once. Thank God. Are you having car trouble?”

Dean nodded, waving his arm vaguely toward the hood. “Bunch of rattling noises and she just cut out on me.”

The guy looked the car over appraisingly. “This is a really nice car. Not what I pictured you driving.”

Dean raised an eyebrow defensively. “What, so because I wear a suit I have to drive a zippy asshole car?”

His grin wide, Bull Guy held up both hands defensively. He was wearing the same leather jacket he had been at the Roadhouse, Dean noted, and beneath it was a black t-shirt with some text he couldn’t quite make out, and an image of a big, red pair of lips. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he said. “Want me to take a look?”

“You know about cars?”

The guy jerked his head back to where his motorcycle was parked behind the car. “I’m a mechanic… better with two wheels than four but I know my way around.”

Dean nodded, folding his arms across his chest self-consciously as the man headed around to the front of the Chevy. Dean was well aware that he looked like a drowned rat, sporting a soaked shirt for the second time in this dude’s presence. It seemed like he was destined never to make a good impression on him. Though he wasn’t quite sure why he wanted so much to make any kind of impression, really.

After only a minute of rattling, Bull Guy emerged from the hood, shaking his head. He lowered the metal hood prop and let it fall shut with a slam, tapping the top of it with his knuckles when he was done. “Bad news, you need some serious work on your engine.”

“Shit.” Dean sighed. Fucking typical.

The man’s lips moved again, but his words were caught by the howling wind and Dean heard none of it.

“What?” he called, leaning closer in the rain.

“I said, do you have someone on the way to pick you up?”

Dean shook his head. “There’s only my brother and he’s not answering his phone.”

“The asshole from the bar?”

“Hey—” Dean began, before seeing the guy’s raised eyebrow. Well, alright. Maybe in that small instance, he had a point. “He’s not usually like that. He was just worried about me. But he’s working late anyway, I guess, because I can’t get him to pick up.”

“Alright.” The man nodded firmly and reached inside the Impala. He grabbed Dean’s wallet from the dashboard and ripped the keys out of the ignition.

For a split second, Dean thought  _ that  _ was the moment when he was getting mugged, but instead the guy threw him his keys and wallet, then closed the Impala door firmly. 

“Make sure you lock her up,” he said. “She’s really pretty and this isn’t a good neighborhood.”

Dean nodded. Right. Of course. 

“Come on,” Bull Guy said, gesturing to his motorcycle. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

Dean’s throat went shamefully dry for a moment. A ride home with this man?

“Take your shirt off,” Bull Guy shouted, oblivious to Dean’s inner turmoil.

“What?!” Dean froze.

“Your shirt!” The guy waved at the clinging material of Dean’ work attire. “It’s hardly keeping you warm stuck to you like that, and it’s white!”

“White?!”

Bull Guy rolled his eyes. “God help me—I’m not trying to get you out of your clothes. I just want something white to attach to the car, okay? If I was trying to get you out of your shirt in any other way, I’d be doing a much better job of it.”

Dean couldn’t help the tiny grin that burst out of him, accompanied by a little laugh. “Is that so?”

The eye roll was a full body affair, that time. Bull Guy stalked off toward his motorcycle, leaving Dean to strip off the pathetic material of his shirt and shut it into the driver’s side door, so that it drooped outside, flapping wetly in the wind. He double-locked Baby and then splashed his way back to where the stunning, expensive-looking motorcycle waited.

Greedily, Dean couldn’t help but skim his eyes up and down Bull Guy as he straddled the bike, waiting for him. 

“Should have known from the bull that you like a bit of power between your legs,” he quipped, trying to cover for the lack of confidence that being soaking wet and shirtless next to Bull Guy’s cozy-looking leather and chaps was causing. “This is a really nice bike, though. I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

A snort came from the front of the motorcycle. “I’m not the only one making assumptions, apparently.”

Dean flushed as he threw a leg over the back, settling onto the seat behind Bull Guy. “Finally, it’s my turn to say sorry for something.”

The guy turned and fixed him with an icy glare, but it only lasted a second before it thawed. He looked back at Dean’s bare chest, his eyes lingering a little longer than they should—or perhaps that was just Dean’s wishful thinking. Bull Guy pulled off his leather jacket and handed it back to Dean. “No bare skin on this bike,” he said.

Dean took the leather and nodded awkwardly. “What about you?”

“At least I’m wearing a shirt,” he pointed out. 

Dean registered that the shirt said  _ Lust or Bust  _ along with the lips. “Okay,” he called back. “It really is a nice bike,” he said by way of apology. “I wasn’t just trying to be an ass.”

Bull Guy patted the front of the motorcycle almost fondly. “She’s a Kawasaki H2 SE, only had her a couple of months. And yes, she cost a lot of money, not that it’s any of your business.”

Dean looked down at the motorcycle that now rested between his legs, looking along her side. He realized that she wasn’t just beautifully maintained, but also had custom decals of feathered wings along the side. “She’s gorgeous,” he said honestly, calling loudly over the weather even though they were close.

“Where am I going?” Bull Guy asked as a smooth starting vibration ran through the chassis of the bike. 

Dean managed to give him the address through another rumble of thunder, and he nodded just once before kicking his foot up off the floor and revving the bike. Before Dean even had time to register what was happening, they were flying.

The man didn’t have to tell Dean to hold on—though, he thought a moment too late, he probably should have held on to the backrest, rather than suddenly cling desperately to a near-stranger’s waist. But there they were. 

He felt the guy chuckle, a vibration against his ribs.

It only took them ten minutes to make it to Dean’s home, and thankfully they rode ahead of the storm, though it looked close behind. Bull Guy pulled right up outside Dean’s gate, cutting the engine of the motorcycle as he rested one foot down on the pavement. 

Dean hopped off and began to pull his arms out of the jacket. “I really appreciate the ride, you didn’t have to do that.”

The guy’s eyes definitely lingered a little too long that time as Dean’s bare chest was revealed again. Dean found he didn’t mind.

“You’re welcome,” Bull Guy was saying with a shrug. “It’s not a big deal. And I did owe you for the bull.”

Dean couldn’t help a small grin as he handed the jacket back. “Can I at least get your name this time? I’ve been calling you Bull Guy in my head ever since that day.”

The smile that came back was wolfish and lit the blue sky of Bull Guy’s eyes with twinkles. “Are you saying I’ve been in your head?”

Dean felt his cheeks heat instantly. “I, uh, I meant—”

That laugh, again. Dean wanted to swallow it down and keep it. “Cas. For you… call me Cas,” Bull Guy said.

Strangely flustered, Dean extended his hand and shared his name, even though Cas hadn’t asked. “Dean, Sir,” he said, the response slipping out before he even registered it. 

There was a pause, something curious sparking behind Cas’s eyes at Dean’s awkward outburst. Dean squirmed.

“Well, nice to see you again, Dean,” he said, nodding slowly. He didn’t even blink as he looked Dean up and down. “Every bit of you, I must say.”

Dean blinked.

Cas dragged his eyes over Dean once more as he slid the leather jacket back up his arms, winked, and kicked off the curb.

Dean was left dripping a puddle onto the pavement, fighting between surprised, confused, and aroused.

He decided to make time for a long, hot shower before he called a towing company. 

///

Working with Zachariah Adler was fucking awful, Dean felt. But it was definitely still preferable to the times he had to report to Naomi or Dick, so he tended to shut up and smile his way through it. He didn’t hate his job as so many people seemed to, but he certainly occasionally daydreamed of finishing off the management team with a letter opener. So, it wasn’t much of a surprise that Dean had a rough morning. Near the end of the year when they did this huge interim budget sweep, every morning was a bad morning.

He hadn’t even had time to call a mechanic about his car—Sam had given him a ride to work, thank goodness, but he didn’t want to rely on anyone else for long. Unfortunately, calling the auto shop involved him being at his desk or at least standing still for five minutes.

With a sigh, he trudged out of the boardroom where he’d been presenting and made his way to the bathroom on the floor above his own. It was technically the executive bathroom for the directors and their guests, but when the office was busy as it was now, they turned a blind eye to their other, higher up employees using it. It was a perk that Dean used frequently, as a Senior, given that it was the nicest bathroom in the building. 

He walked inside the calm, marble-tiled room and leaned over the sink, taking a couple of deep breaths. He reached up and loosened his tie with two fingers, then poured himself a small cup of complimentary mouthwash. 

“Well, this is a surprise,” came a deep, gravelly voice from behind him.

Dean spat out the mouthwash a little more suddenly than he’d intended, taken by surprise. “Cas?”

“Dean.” Cas leaned one leather-clad shoulder onto the frame of the door, which he held open with his foot. “Didn’t expect to see you again, let alone so soon.”

“Same,” Dean said with a small smile. He turned, resting his tailbone against the pale marble sink counter. “What on Earth are you doing at Sandover?”

The question in the back of Dean’s head was more along the lines of “How did you get in here looking like that?” given that he was wearing his usual leather jacket over scuffed jeans, a crumpled white shirt, and what Dean thought might actually be the remains of some smudged eyeliner. But he was polite, so he stuck with what he’d said… to be honest, the guy looked hot as hell but not like someone you’d usually run across in the hall of a Fortune 500.

Cas stood up straighter, moving his foot so that the door swung slowly shut behind him. “Someone’s making assumptions again,” he said, smirking.

Dean tried his best to keep his eyes on Cas’s own vivid blues, but he couldn’t help a quick skim up and down, just to double check there wasn’t something more Sandover-y there that he missed. “Look, dude, if you work here and they changed the dress code, then they could have let me know, that’s all I’m saying,” he said with a quick grin, going back to loosening his tie. 

Cas’s small grin turned coy—he’d definitely seen Dean look him up and down. He tilted his head to the side, giving Dean the same treatment as he took a slow step forward. “Oh? So, you don’t wear the suits just for fun?”

“Hell no,” Dean laughed. “I’m good at what I do. But I’m not wed to the monkey suits.”

“Shame. They look pretty good on you.” Cas took another step forward.

There was no way Dean could be reading this wrong—right? He licked his lips involuntarily, torn between horny and panicked. What the hell was happening here?

“And you?” Dean choked out. “You clearly aren’t the suit type, so what are you doing in the director’s bathroom, huh?”

Cas waved a dismissive hand. “Eh, I’m here to meet my brother for lunch. But I definitely don’t want to talk about him right now.”

“Is that so?” Dean managed, registering that Cas had closed the distance between them to the point where personal space was something of a joke. He smelled of cinnamon and motor oil, mixing into something musky and delicious that Dean wanted to lick from his skin.

“Well,” Cas said, carefully pausing. He looked Dean up and down once more—his face, mostly, too close to see much else—and rested one hand on the sink near Dean’s hip. “It’s up to you whether I actually make it to lunch.”

Okay, okay. That was pretty clear. Dean took a shaky breath. “Lock the door,” he said, his voice catching.

The way Cas’s eyes darkened was breathtaking; Dean had one-hundred-percent read the situation right. Cas took three swift, large steps backward, leaning his back against the door as he turned mechanism to lock it. Once it clicked into place he raised his hand, crooking a finger and silently summoning Dean to him.

Dean was only two steps forward when Cas’s other hand darted out, grabbing him by his favorite blue tie and hauling him the rest of the way so that they crashed into a furious, lip-bruising kiss. 

It was all heat and hunger and teeth, and Dean could feel his heartbeat in his ears. Cas’s spare hand was in Dean’s hair as the breath was pulled from his lungs. His tie was still in Cas’s fist, twisted and tugged to control the kiss, which had to be at least a seven on the Richter scale. His whole world shook along with his knees, falling down into the chasm that Cas had opened the minute his intentions became clear.

And fuck, it was good to fall into. Cas was an amazing kisser and if that was as far as it went, Dean would still have felt more thoroughly fucked than he had in years. But clearly, the hot biker had other ideas. 

Releasing the tie, Cas’s hands travelled down Dean’s back to glide over the cheeks of his ass, gripping them in a shameless, tight squeeze. Before Dean even knew what was happening, Cas’s hands slid down a little further to the back of his thighs and he was hoisted clear of the floor.

Wrapping his legs around Cas automatically—as much to avoid an unwelcome fall as it was for porn levels of sexiness—Dean let out a breathless gasp. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

“Castiel, actually.” Cas smirked against Dean’s neck as his lips travelled further south.

“You’re definitely more devil than messiah,” Dean said breathlessly, throwing his head back as Cas stepped forward, taking Dean with him as if he weighed nothing.

As Cas pulled back to place Dean up on the edge of the sink, his grin was wide and delighted. “Castiel is an angel.”

Dean huffed out a laugh as Cas moved shamelessly on down to his collarbone. “You sure don’t act like one.”

“Well, I don’t like to do what people expect. Now, shut up.”

Dean was more than happy to comply.

Like something from a cheesy porno, his shirt buttons went flying. He wasn’t even pissed; he had a spare in his office, and it was well worth it. Bull Guy, now Cas—or possibly Castiel—was every fantasy Dean had ever had, come to life. 

The mirror was cool against the back of Dean’s head as Cas suckled on his left nipple, the other between his fingers, being rolled and teased mercilessly. Cas was totally in control, there was absolutely no question about that, and Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever been more in agreement about anything. He lifted his head and chest just slightly before moving himself back at the slightest lift of Cas’s eyebrow. 

It turned out that eyebrow was the puppet master that held all of Dean’s strings; just a twitch here and there, and oh, did Dean dance. 

“Belt.” Cas said into the side of Dean’s neck. 

Dean’s fingers complied before his brain processed what he’d even said. “Fuck, Cas, you—”

“Actually,” Cas’s voice was a growl right next to Dean’s ear, “I think I’ll be the one doing the fucking, here. Though I don’t have any lube with me, so our options are sadly limited.”

Realistically, Dean knew he shouldn’t hand so much power to a man he’d barely met, but his traitorous cock so did not get the memo, leaping to attention like a dirty boy scout begging for praise. “Shit,” he hissed, low. “You can do whatever you want, no fucking kidding.”

“Such a good boy,” Cas said, pulling back to loosen his own belt. “Gorgeous, a dirty mouth, and you submit so beautifully… I should have gotten thrown off that bull years ago.”

Cas reached forward, pulling Dean’s pants and boxer briefs down onto his thighs so that his cock leapt free, red and aching. He grinned at the sight of it, moving back between Dean’s legs to smear his thumb through the pearl of precome that was already bubbling from his slit. 

Dean moaned.

“And the sounds you make… perfect. You’re perfect.” Cas continued his gravelly litany, pumping at Dean’s cock a few times as he spoke. “There’s a condom in my back pocket.”

Obediently, Dean reached around, finding a wallet tucked into the back of Cas’s jeans. He wasn’t about to root around in a stranger’s wallet, so he pulled it out and placed it on the sink next to them. Cas was occupied, one hand jerking Dean’s cock while his eyes devoured the motion, his other still alternating between Dean’s nipples. That one he let move, reaching for the wallet and flipping it open, practiced fingers pulling out the condom and holding it up for Dean.

As soon as Dean took it, Cas went back to work. Dean let out a hiss at the sensation in his abused nipple, and for a moment Cas slowed, considerately—until Dean shook his head. 

“No, more, please—I like it.”

Grinning widely, Cas jacked him faster. “Of course you do,” he said, ducking down to graze the red, pebbled nipple with his teeth.

“Shit! Cas!”

“Get that condom on, now,” Cas ordered.

Dean didn’t have to be told twice. He ripped the wrapper off and dropped it in the sink he still perched on the edge of, his ankles curled behind Cas, beneath his ass. He used both hands, rolling the condom straight on without any preamble. Cas stepped back to give him room but placed one hand either side of Dean’s thighs on the marble, boxing him in possessively.

“Beautiful,” Cas breathed out, his eyes watching the latex slide down Dean’s twitching length.

“What do you want—” Dean cut off with a breathless howl as Cas’s mouth enveloped him, biting his lip at the last moment so that the entire floor didn’t know what was up in the Director’s bathroom. 

Cas’s lips stretched obscenely as he took Dean deeply back into the furnace of his throat, looking back up at him with one hand on each of his thighs, a debauched vision of ocean blue and ebony kohl. He worked his tongue underneath Dean’s cock, massaging the vein that ran along the underside with the tip on every upward suck. 

The wet noise as Cas popped off him to take a deep breath was obscene, causing Dean’s cock to jerk involuntarily. 

“Good boy,” Cas whispered, watching Dean’s teeth dent his lower lip as Cas’s hand came back to squeeze at his swollen head. “Such a good boy for me, aren’t you? The things I could make you do and we don’t even know each other yet…”

The whimper that passed from Dean’s mouth should have been shameful, but the way it lit up Cas’s eyes made Dean nothing but proud. 

The hand that Cas didn’t already have wrapped around Dean’s length came sliding up across his chest to his neck, as the biker leaned in to ghost hot breath across his ear. “Do you want to see how far I can take you, how good I can make it? Tie. Now.”

The blue necktie was barely holding on as it was, having clung on as best it could when Dean’s shirt had been unceremoniously ripped open. It only took Dean one hand to slide it the rest of the way off. He gripped the silk hard so that it didn’t slip to the floor and held it up for Cas.

Cas pulled back, letting go of Dean to take the tie in both hands, though he still had him entirely pinned with his eyes alone. He ran the length of the material between his fingers, smiling heatedly. Still holding it loosely, Cas flicked the tie forward so that it looped over the back of Dean’s neck, using it to tug him forward. He kissed him deeply, the taste of latex still fresh on his tongue. Dean hummed into Cas’s mouth, fully confident that he’d never been this hard in his life. 

Carefully, Cas pulled one side of the tie down a little, before drawing it back around to loop entirely around Dean’s neck. He held the silk in his hands, not pulling yet, his eyes electric and blue as he gazed at Dean, his kiss-swollen lips parted just a fraction as he simply took him in for a moment.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Cas murmured, more to himself than anything else, it seemed. When his voice came back again, it was strong and firm. “Yes or no, Dean?”

Dean tilted his head back against the mirror, letting out a moan. “Please, just—”

The tie yanked sharply. “Yes, or no. I want full, explicit consent from you, or this stops right now.”

“Yes! God, Cas, yes, fuck—” Dean stopped speaking the second he felt the blue tie tighten back around his throat, pressing into his airway.

There was absolutely nothing sane or safe about this. Cas could be anyone really, the short impression they’d had of each other. But Dean’s body had entirely different ideas about what was good than his brain. With a gorgeous man stood between his legs, there was only one of them ever going to win.

“Ahhh….” Dean let out a happy, choked sound through the tie as Cas transferred both ends of his makeshift throttle to one hand, making sure it was pulled tight before he lowered himself down, taking Dean’s throbbing, desperate cock back into his mouth.

The sensation was overwhelming.

Cas’s mouth was so fucking hot, and he knew exactly how to pull Dean’s head back into the cavern of his mouth, hollow out his cheeks and swallow, creating the tantalizing suction that had Dean shuddering beneath him. His tongue worked Dean’s length hard, no teasing or mercy; Cas wanted him, and Dean was going to give him exactly what he wanted, with no arguments. Dean began to feel hazy and floaty, the constriction of his throat just the right accompaniment to the cock-sucking high.

Fuck, it was so good.

So, so, good, he was getting so close—

Cas must have been able to tell, as he pulled back, nestling Dean’s cock in the pouch of his cheek for just a moment before he let it go to speak. “Dean. I need you to tap my shoulder when I need to stop. Can you do that for me?”

Fuzzy, happy, but not quite there yet, Dean nodded. “Yes.”

“Good boy,” Cas purred, deep and pleased, before he dived back down to business, swallowing Dean down like he loved every moment, like sucking cock was for him, not for Dean.

The sensation built, and rose, and glitters of light appeared at the edges of Dean’s eyes. He raised his hand to tap, but he didn’t even need to complete the motion for Cas to immediately release the tie, good to his word.

Oxygen flooded back into Dean’s system as he gasped, lifting him to a tingly, lung-aching high that was only surpassed by Cas’s hand, jerking him fast and hard, pushing him over the edge to twin the two sensations into a perfect ecstasy. 

“Shit—fuck…” Dean breathed out, delirious and happy as he filled the condom, twitching and gasping.

“Knees,” Cas growled before Dean was even back in the room with him.

Not wanting to argue even if he’d been able to, Dean slithered bonelessly down from the marble sink and slid down to his knees on the tile. 

Cas’s eyes were like a ton weight that kept him there, immobile, as Cas’s jeans slipped down to his knees. His cock—fully erect and magnificent, straight and thick—bobbed hungrily in the air, coming to rest on Dean’s cheekbone. With one hand, Cas held Dean’s face. He grasped his jaw, holding him roughly in place while he jacked himself like it was a race, desperate, noisy, uncaring.

“Oh—yes, fuck—you were so good, such a good boy for me…” Cas let out a grunt, his eyes widening as he came, splashing across Dean’s face. 

Dean didn’t stop watching his expression, held in place by Cas’s bruising fingers. 

The hot come slid across his flushed cheeks and on down, painting him possessively.

Cas let go of his chin and while still lazily pumping at himself with his other hand, he ran two fingers through the mess on Dean’s face, trailing it down to the red welt that Dean could already feel bruising on his skin from where he’d been choked.

Cas rubbed the come into Dean’s neck like he was marking territory.

Dean was still on his knees when Cas tucked himself back into his pants, leaning down to press a kiss to Dean’s forehead. 

“I have a lunch to get to,” he said against Dean’s skin. “But that was fantastic, thank you.”

On the tile, pants around his thighs and shirt wrecked, Dean was left smiling goofily to himself on the floor of the bathroom. 

The fucker even left the door open.

///

Dean was still floating on a high late that afternoon, humming to himself as he gathered a pile of papers from his desk to take to his final presentation of the day. His experience with Cas in the bathroom had been so far away from anything he would usually have done, but he’d loved every moment. His only regret was letting Cas walk away without asking him for his number, because that was definitely an experience he’d like to repeat. 

Checking that the spare shirt he’d quickly grabbed from his office wasn’t too creased, Dean straightened his tie and assessed himself in the dark screen of his computer before straightening up. He’d do. He might not be as perfectly coiffed as usual, but hopefully ‘just-fucked roguish charm’ would carry him through this final, minor presentation. Once this was over, he had a week’s vacation and—hopefully—another  _ Employee of the Month _ frame waiting for him. 

He was almost out of the office before he dashed back, quickly grabbing a post-it and pen and scribbling, “Call to get your damn car fixed!” in his worst handwriting, before leaving the neon-yellow square on his own keyboard.

The room for the final meeting, according to the invite that was flashing up on Dean’s phone screen, was fairly big; the meeting wouldn’t take long and was quite informal compared to the rest, but the entire Sandover team would be there, including Adler, Novak, and Roman. Plastering on his best robot smile, Dean stepped inside. 

He moved straight up to the podium, knowing that he was up first, stopping only for a quick hello and handshake with Joshua from Marketing and Ana from Sales. Once he had his papers arranged, he did a quick tap of the microphone to test it.

It was then, while the crowd was nodding and agreeing that they could hear clearly, that Dean spotted Ms. Novak.

Naomi wasn’t the most popular of the Directors; she had a reputation as a volatile, uncaring ice queen, in fact, but she was very good at finding out important information about their competitors right when they needed it, so she more than earned her keep in the management team. Dean was on friendly enough terms with her, he supposed, as long as he didn’t have to actually like her—which he’d learned, long ago, was definitely not a requirement for business.

She stood to the side of the podium, talking to Dick Roman, the newest of the Directors, introducing him to a man and a woman she brought with her which both had their backs to Dean. When she caught Dean’s eye, she raised two fingers, pointing to the side of the stage and gesturing, indicating that she wanted to catch him when he was done.

He nodded in her direction, before turning back to his numbers. 

They were good numbers, great numbers, the best numbers the company had ever had. Naomi would, Dean hoped, congratulate him for them when he stepped down. 

The assembled crowd clapped and nodded at all the right moments, and Dean was pleased with himself by the time he was done. His day might have started out a little frustrating, he decided, but it’d certainly had a good turnaround.

Strange what getting the hell dommed out of you in a public bathroom can do, he thought coyly to himself. Jesus Christ, why hadn’t he tried to get Cas’s number. What an idiot.

Shaking his head regretfully, Dean progressed back down the side of the room to where Naomi waited. 

“Ahh, Dean,” she said coolly, extending her hand. “Thank you for delivering such excellent numbers to us, yet again. You know you are a very valued employee here at Sandover.”

Dean shook firmly, giving her a proud smile. “Thank you, Ms. Novak.”

“I just wanted to let you know that Zach, Dick, and I would like you to come up to the forty-fifth floor sometime on Monday—we have some important matters we’d like to discuss with you, which we’d like to keep between the four of us.”

Dean had been angling for a promotion to Head of Finance for a long while, and old Zeke had been the subject of retirement rumors for months. Dean had been looking forward to his vacation but a secret meeting with the three of them would be well worth putting a suit back on for.

“Of course, Ms. Novak. I’ll arrive promptly on Monday morning and wait for you to be free.”

With a nod, she stepped back. “Excellent. Now, you must excuse me—my son and daughter-in-law are here, waiting for me to congratulate them on the new spawn they’ve just announced.”

Dean blinked at her phrasing.

Nonplussed, Naomi shrugged. “As if one rugrat wasn’t enough for them. Have a good weekend, Mister Winchester.”

With that, she turned and walked over toward a slim blond woman and a navy-suited man, the couple that he’d seen her talking to earlier. Her son and daughter-in-law, Dean now assumed.

He wondered briefly if he should walk over and congratulate them on the pregnancy too, but decided that might be weird. 

In his moment of hesitation, Dean was still looking in their direction as Naomi’s broad, dark-haired son turned, looking back up toward the podium. 

For a moment, his eyes rested on Dean, before moving dispassionately onward.

Vivid, bright, ocean blue.

Oh, holy fuck, thought Dean.

///

Saturday morning dawned fresh and bright, in complete contrast to Dean’s mood. He woke late and groaned against the cheery sunlight that rudely invaded his bedroom around the edges of the blinds. Pulling the pillow over his head, he sighed into the fabric.

He’d pretty much offered himself on a plate to Ms. Novak’s son, in her own fancy bathroom, nonetheless. 

Her married son with the pregnant wife.

No wonder Cas hadn’t waited around to give Dean his phone number or made any mention of seeing him again. 

Dean felt totally used. Which was funny because Cas had one-hundred-percent used him pretty damn hard in that bathroom, but  _ that  _ didn’t make Dean feel that way at all. That, he’d loved.

But knowing that Cas was married and had a kid on the way… that made him feel dirty inside. Not to mention fucking furious.

Dean sighed again before reluctantly rolling to the side and beginning to haul himself out of bed. His bedroom was a little chilly from sleeping with the window open, and he shuffled reluctantly through the cool air to shut it. He took a peek outside, taking in the quiet lane lined with fields which lead to his slightly haphazard, but loved, home. He’d fix it up one day, he always told himself. When there was someone worth making an effort for.

His eyes fell on the ‘67 Impala outside, hauled into his driveway by a helpful towing company the night before. He hadn’t been able to get an appointment to get her looked at until the next Tuesday, so for a few days, she would have to sit forlornly on his garage forecourt where she’d been left. He felt a little guilty, like he should know more about her, how to fix her, how to care for her at the level she deserved. His mom would have liked that.

Shrugging, Dean gave one final glare to the beautiful morning outside and went to grab himself a shower.

He was clean and in the midst of brewing coffee when he heard a distant noise. Living anywhere else he might not have noticed it, but in Dean’s quiet little country corner, there were never any vehicles on the road other than himself.

And his car wouldn’t even move.

Anyway, that sounded less like a car and more like a… like a motorcycle. 

No, surely…

Couldn’t be.

Dean slammed his coffee mug grumpily down onto the old, chipped kitchen counter, and stalked through the narrow hallway that led to the glass-paned front door. The entrance was as old as the house was but the frosted glass panes in the door were all intact—enabling Dean to see a dark shape pull up outside even as he moved down the hallway.

The throaty growl of the motorcycle gave out as the engine was cut. Dean was already opening his front door by the time Cas was swinging his leg over the motorcycle and unclipping a plain black, full-face helmet. He left it resting on the seat, unconcerned about anyone stealing it this far out of the city, apparently. 

Turning, Cas made his way up the haphazard stone-slab pathway to where Dean, barefoot and barechested, in clean jeans alone, came striding out of the front door.

A slow smile began to spread over his features before a hint of confusion dusted across his expression at Dean’s intense, furious look. 

It was all wiped away in red as Dean’s fist connected with Cas’s nose.

Caught totally unawares, Cas ended up on his ass on the ground, hand over his face as blood formed a river down to his pale gray AC/DC t-shirt, visible under the perpetual leather jacket. 

“What the  _ fuck,  _ Dean?” He snarled, wetly, sprays of blood flicking from his lips as he spoke. “What the actual fuck?”

He made no effort to defend himself, looking completely and utterly dazed as he remained sitting on Dean’s garden pathway. 

“What the hell?” Dean growled back, his hand still a fist. It was taking all of his control not to add another punch to the first.

“Me what the hell?? You what the hell!” Cas yelled, pushing himself up off the stone pathway. “What was that for?!”

“What was—Seriously?” Dean yelled right back. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

Cas blinked in confusion, still cradling his nose as he stood up. “You punched me in the face!” he pointed out redundantly.

“Of course I did! I can’t believe you did that!”

Cas’s hand slowly dropped, and he regarded Dean with a furrowed brow and furiously red-streaked face. “You mean—In the bathroom? I thought you  _ wanted— _ ”

“Of course I did!” Dean barked, half hysterical. “You’re hot as hell, flouncing up in there with all your”—Dean flapped his hand vaguely at everything in front of him that, all together, made a whole Cas—“I couldn’t resist that! Didn’t even want to! But if I’d known—”

“Known  _ what? _ ” Cas interrupted incredulously. “Because I wouldn’t have done any of it if I’d realized you were a psycho that punches people in the face when they come to offer help!”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“I came to look at your car, asshole! I realized that I was in such a hurry yesterday that I didn’t give you a phone number or anything. I was worried you shouldn’t spend the weekend alone after what we did, and I thought I’d offer to take a better look at your Chevy in the daylight, see if I could fix her—I didn’t expect you to come at me swinging, Dean!”

The wind was momentarily taken out of Dean’s sails, but it only took a second for them to refill—his good intentions for visiting didn’t change anything, after all.

“I don’t think you have time to look after my car,” Dean said, snide and angry once more. “Shouldn’t you be at home looking after your pregnant wife instead?”

Dean expected some kind of reaction, but the long, slowly blinking stare that he received was not it. 

And then, laughter.

That rich, deep, mesmerizing laugh that crinkled Cas’s eyes and vibrated through the air like something that Dean still—in spite of himself—wanted to press into his chest. 

“You think it’s  _ funny _ ?” Dean hissed. This guy was even sicker than he’d thought. To think that he’d let him—

“Oh, Dean, it’s not funny. It’s absolutely hilarious,” Cas responded, wheezing so hard he took a moment to prop himself up on the waist-high wall around Dean’s garden with one hand. “This is—wow. This is really, really funny.”

“Are you insane?” Dean asked, bewildered. It seemed like a legitimate question.

“Oh, possibly,” Cas responded. “But not in this case.”

Dean realized that Cas’s voice was getting a little muffled, and a quick look at him showed the center of his face swelling, dripping thick blood down across his chin and making macabre rain splatters on his shirt.

“I’m a twin,” Cas said bloodily. 

“Twin,” Dean repeated, the word not registering.

“My brother, Jimmy, is my twin.”

Dean blinked again.

“That means we look the same, Dean,” Cas said very slowly. Apparently, Dean hadn’t punched quite hard enough to knock the sass out of him. 

“You…you said you were…”

“Meeting my brother for lunch?” Cas said helpfully, gingerly patting the back of his hand to his upper lip with a wince. “I think you broke my nose.”

Son of a bitch. Except this time, Cas was the son—Naomi Novak’s son—and Dean was the bitch. Balls. 

“Oh, fuck—” Dean reached forward, putting a hand on Cas’s shoulder as he leaned over the wall. “Shit, I’m so sorry, I—”

Cas waved a hand. “It’s okay.”

“It is not okay,” Dean argued. “You came to offer me help and I punched you in the face.”

“Yes.” Cas huffed out a small laugh, before grimacing, obviously thinking better of it. “You did. But you did also think I lied by omission and was cheating on my pregnant wife, so… I kinda get it.”

“I’m still sorry.” Dean could feel his cheeks burning fiery red by that point. 

“I don’t have a wife, just for reference purposes.”

“Good to know.” Dean reached out very slowly toward Cas’s face, not wanting to startle him. “Can I take a look? I’ve got a first-aid kit inside—”

Cas held up a hand, cautioning Dean not to touch him. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I think I’m just gonna go, head back home and spend the rest of my day off with a bag of frozen vegetables on my face.”

Dean cringed. “Dude, I—”

“Really.” Cas managed a half-smile through the slowly congealing blood. “Not the first time I’ve been punched in the face. Not even the first time by someone who thought I was my brother, actually. I’ll live.”

Dean watched helplessly as Cas turned and headed back down the path to his motorcycle. The wing decals on the sides gleamed in the pretty sunlight. Cas very carefully eased his helmet down over his face.

“You could have a concussion!” Dean yelled desperately after him.

“And who’s fault is that?” Cas yelled back, kicking off the pavement.

He left with a sexy, metallic roar, and Dean remained in his front yard, barefoot, feeling like an asshole. 

///

After the punch-throwing excitement of Dean’s morning, the rest of Saturday was a bit of a letdown. He puttered around his house, making notes of various projects that had suddenly come to mind. Dean had lived in the place several years already, but never made the time to actually do any of the work on it that he’d intended when he purchased the place—no one but Sam and Jess had ever even seen the house, so what was the point?

He made lists of improvements—bookshelves needed in the living room, new counters in the kitchen, repair for the broken tiles in the master bath. But no matter what he did, Dean couldn’t distract himself from the nasty, uncomfortable feeling that had settled in his stomach.

God, he was such a fucking jerk. 

Why had he let his anger get the better of him like that? He could have fucking  _ asked _ Cas what was up with him being related to Naomi Novak. 

He hadn’t needed to ruin everything like that.

Not that there had been anything there to ruin, or nothing certain, anyway. Dean wasn’t enough of an idiot to think that a hot fumble in a public bathroom meant anything. Though he was forced to admit that, at least to him, maybe it had meant a little. Or at least held potential.

And maybe for Cas too, he realized, remembering that the bloodied mechanic had said he hadn’t only come to check on the car because he felt guilty—he’d come to check on Dean. After the admittedly unsafe BDSM experience they’d shared at Sandover, Cas had wanted to check on him and make sure he didn’t spend the weekend alone. Make sure that he didn’t spend the whole weekend in a bad headspace thanks to letting a near-stranger choke him and come on his face.

And Dean had punched him in the nose for it.

Fuck. 

Giving up on his feeble attempts at home improvement, Dean made himself a simple dinner of a heartening casserole that his mom had made for him when he was a kid. As an adult, he cringed at the amount of cheese and miscellaneous meat that the preparation called for, but the recipe had never lost its nostalgia, or it’s comfort. After filling up on far too much of it, Dean gave up on the day and shuffled himself off to bed.

He’d watch a movie, he figured, or hell, watch some porn and try his best to forget all about the fantastically blue-eyed, sex-haired biker.

Dean relaxed in front of his copy of  _ The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,  _ before popping  _ The Magnificent Seven  _ on to follow it up. He had a weak spot for old cowboy movies and despite his huge dinner he managed to munch his way through several bowls of popcorn, sprawled on his unmade bed.

He wasn’t sulking, he told himself.

Nothing wrong with taking a bit of a self-care night to himself after he’d accidentally chased off the only guy he’d actually been interested in for years.

Watching Steve McQueen ride around the old west as Vin Tanner managed to distract Dean fairly well for a couple of hours before he flicked off the TV and grabbed his laptop from where it lived on his nightstand. Navigating his way through a few of his favorite sites, Dean settled on an old favorite video to watch and arranged himself on the pillows, stripping off his pajama pants so that he had full access to himself. Lube and tissues lived in the nightstand drawer, so he was fully prepared by the time the video started.

Dean had never held much shame about the very particular things he was into and desired in the bedroom—it made sense to him. He spent all day at work maintaining control in a high-stress environment, why should it be a surprise to anyone that when he was off the clock, he liked to hand control to someone else? His only serious ex-girlfriend, Lisa, had struggled somewhat with that aspect of their relationship, though she’d been happy to play up to Dean’s tastes now and again—but the idea of having someone to thoroughly dominate him and take care of him, as Cas had done in that bathroom… Dean knew that was what he really craved.

The video played on, ignored, as Dean drifted and remembered, his hand lazily stroking up and down himself, slowly edging his way toward release, unhurried. His mind was occupied instead by the feel of Cas’s leather jacket under his fingers, the way his sapphire eyes gleamed in the rain, the roll of his muscled back as Dean pressed his chest to it on the bitch seat of Cas’s motorcycle.

He thought of eyes that were stormy oceans and grins that could sink ships. The way Cas’s tongue rested on his bottom lip when his smile was at its most coy. The way his voice rumbled through his chest as he commanded Dean get to his knees.

Dean’s fingers slid on down past his perineum, circling his rim slowly, lubed and ready. He wanted Cas above him, pushing his knees back to his chest, holding him immobile, railing him into the mattress.

He wanted to be tied and choked and ordered and fucked.

Two fingers inside himself, with a long, drawn out whimper of Cas’s name, Dean came heavy and wet across his own chest. He sputtered and leaked for what seemed like forever, remembering Cas’s words.

_ “So good, such a good boy for me…” _

Fuck. Dean really wouldn’t be forgetting about the gorgeous mechanic anytime soon.

///

“I’m pretty sure this is a terrible idea, Dean,” Sam stated firmly. It was Sunday night and Dean was sat shotgun in Sam’s perfectly average, totally suburban Ford Focus. “This is real life, I would like to remind you, not some weird porno.”

Dean thought he could definitely illuminate Sam in the area of real life being like pornography, but he figured his little brother would probably not appreciate a blow by blow account of last week’s bathroom activities. 

“I think it’s kind of romantic,” Jess said from the back seat. Her voice was warm and supportive, and Dean had rarely appreciated his sister-in-law more than in that moment.

Sam let out an outnumbered  _ hrmph _ -ing noise. “Well, I’m not coming in. We’ll drop you off, and Jess and I will go up the street to the Italian restaurant, okay? That way, when you end up covered in beer or surrounded by angry bikers that know you as the guy who messed up their friend’s face, we’ll be close by.” 

Jess nodded, poking her head between the two front seats. “Of course we’re not going in. Dean needs to do this by himself.”

Sam pulled up outside the Roadhouse. He cut the engine off, then turned to look at Dean, tapping the steering wheel thoughtfully, though he didn’t move his hand from it. He opened his mouth to say something but then seemed to think better of it, shaking his head. Instead, he settled on, “Good luck, Dean.”

Dean felt like he’d need it but he didn’t say as much.

Ducking out of the red Ford and into the early evening, Dean waved back at them both before he hurried across the dark parking lot to the Roadhouse door. It was beginning to drizzle and he’d certainly been rained on enough of late. 

Stepping inside the Roadhouse, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his old trench coat and took a moment to look around the dim room.

Even though it was Sunday night, the bar was pretty busy. Dean had never seen it quiet, in fact, not that he had many visits to judge from. He guessed that being the only bar happy to cater to Cas’s type of folks had its perks. Cas, though, was one patron he didn’t see.

He walked around the room slowly, losing hope, before heading to the long, L-shaped bar. A few solo customers on barstools gave Dean some judgmental side-eye as he leaned his forearms on the counter, but he ignored them. So what if he didn’t fully fit in here, in his white shirt and slacks. He didn’t have anywhere to  _ wear _ a casual wardrobe, so why would he have one. Fuck ‘em.

“What can I get you?” A smiling blond woman with a direct voice, but kind eyes, moved over to him behind the bar, wiping out a glass with a red and white checked towel.

She was the woman who had mopped up the beer, Dean recalled. The one Cas had seemed to know, at least a bit.

“Actually—” Dean grinned hopefully. “—I’m here looking for someone.”

The woman—Helen? Ellie? Dean couldn’t quite recall her name—shut down instantly, her brow paunching darkly above her nose. 

“Not sure I know many people around here. Not really a full-name kind of bar, if you catch my drift.”

“I’m not asking for anything bad, I promise.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“No, I just—I need to find Cas, I still owe him a proper apology, and—”

Dean saw the tiniest flash of recognition in the woman’s blue eyes before she interrupted him, tossing her towel down onto the bar top with a scowl.

“So, you’re going to come in here, not buy anything, not even use my facilities, and expect me to talk about my customers?”

“Woah, no,” Dean said immediately raising his hands. “I’m not here to offend you, ma’am. I’ll take a bottle of whatever IPA you’ve got, and if you want me to hang around and play pool and just wait him out, then that’s what I’m gonna do.”

The woman—Ellen! Her name was Ellen!—eyed him thoughtfully. “Hmm… no,” she said, crossing her arms across her front.

“No?”

“No pool, for you, city-slicker. You want me to call Cas?” She gestured across to the all-too-familiar other end of the bar. “You go and warm Larry up for him while he gets here.”

“L-Larry?” Dean blinked. He wasn’t planning on warming a dude named Larry up for anyone, thank-you-very-much.

“The bull,” a laughing, short blond girl said from his right. Apparently, they now had an audience. “Larry is the bull.”

Oh, what the hell. That was so not Dean’s wheelhouse. 

“You want me to… ride Larry,” Dean practically whispered. There was a tiny voice in the back of his head that warned him he was being inducted into some kind of cult and he should definitely leave. But before he could turn and back out of the bar with his tail between his legs, the blond girl to his right clapped him on the shoulder, guiding him toward the bull.

“C’mon. I’ll show you how to do it—it’s not that bad. Mom doesn’t mean any harm, she just thinks it’s funny to scare the men in suits who think that coming to drink here is their risky venture for the week.”

“Hey,” Dean protested vaguely, but his feet were moving. “Wait—mom? Ellen is your mom?”

She nodded. “Yup. Family business. I’m Jo. And Cas—” She caught Dean’s eye deliberately. “—is a very dear friend and patron of ours. I assume you’re the guy who decorated his face.”

Dean grimaced.

“You’ve got quite a punch, dude.” Jo laughed at his regretful expression, before pausing next to the bull, and slapping it on its saddle. “Climb up.”

“Why? Why do I have to ride the damn bull?” Dean said, looking wide-eyed at Jo, even as he clambered into the saddle. 

Jo’s grin was wolfish. “We’re hoping you’ll fall off and smash your face. An eye for an eye—it’s practically biblical, you know.”

“Why don’t you just punch me instead, call it even?”

Jo threw her head back and laughed. “Because I have standards, you know. Too much self-respect to get my hands dirty—besides, it’ll be much funnier watching you try to stay on Larry.”

Dean already knew that he’d live to regret the decision to do it for one reason or another, so he sighed, shook his head, and held on. A tall, bearded biker with teeth like fangs—one of quite a few that now seemed to be crowding around to watch the rookie—grinned widely at them before hitting the button that started up the mechanical bull.

It was slow, to start with. Dean felt the rhythm of the machine between his legs and managed to get his body to loosely absorb the motion, even as he clung on desperately to the front of the saddle. He didn’t even last a second once it ramped up. 

_ THUD. _

Dean landed on the foam floor like a sack of potatoes. He was pretty sure that even Cas’s landing on top of him had been more graceful.

But Dean Winchester was no quitter. So, he gritted his teeth and climbed back up.

By the fifth fall, he was feeling like a little bit of a quitter.

Most of his audience had wandered off by then but a couple of particularly invested biker-types, and Jo, still remained. Ellen watched from the bar, not even attempting to hide her amusement. 

Dean looked down at the foam mat between his legs as he sat on the floor, taking two seconds to catch his breath. His ass was going to be bruised, he was certain. Shaking his head, thinking that he was an idiot for even being there, Dean stood up for one last try. 

He threw his leg over Larry and settled into the saddle. Before the machine could start a hand appeared, slapping down onto the front of the bull between Dean’s legs. 

“Looks like you could use some assistance,” Cas’s deep, amused voice rumbled behind Dean’s ear.

Dean found himself sliding forward, Cas’s legs bracketing him either side as he mounted the bull behind him. One of Cas’s hands circled Dean’s waist, the other stretching forward to grab the front of the saddle and keep them both secure.

The machine started up.

The rhythm felt entirely different—and definitely much better—when it was delivered to Dean’s body via Cas’s chest and thighs. The arm around his waist was a hot weight, and Dean automatically pressed his own arm overtop of it, tangling his fingers into Cas’s. His other hand reached desperately for something to grab and ended up with a handful of Cas’s thigh.

There was a gravelly chuckle from behind him. “Relax,” Cas whispered right into his ear. “I’ve got you.”

And somehow, he did. Dean relaxed back into Cas’s chest, and they rocked and bucked in time with the mechanical beast. It was easy to forget to worry about falling when he was distracted by the tight clench of Cas’s thighs against his own, and the play of his rippling chest up against Dean’s back.

The ride grew wilder, and still, Cas guided them.

Together, they didn’t fall.

After another minute of very-pleasant rocking and thrusting, Jo called out, “Alright, knock it off. No boners on the bull—I’m calling time.”

The folks watching all laughed, but true to Jo’s word, the bull slowed, and the crowd dispersed. 

Dean turned his head back, leaning to the side to get a look at Cas.

His face was purple, black and blue, centered across his nose. He had two black eyes from the impact association, but they didn’t stop his blues from twinkling, somehow even brighter for their red rims. 

“Hello, Dean.”

“Oh, shit Cas—look at your face!” Dean was aghast.

Cas shrugged one shoulder. “It doesn’t hurt that much. Hopefully, it’s not totally off-putting.”

“Still gorgeous,” Dean responded without engaging his brain. “I mean, uh—you look—”

“Gorgeous is more than fine,” Cas interrupted with a slow, toothy smile. He finally let go of Dean’s waist and swung his leg over the back to dismount. “You came here looking for me,” he said, very notably a statement more than a question.

“Yeah,” Dean admitted, clambering down to stand before Cas. “I did.”

“Well.” Cas gestured down to himself cheesily. “Here I am. Did you come to check if my nose had fallen off? Or did you plan on hitting me again?”

Dean huffed out half a smile, before bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He slid his fingers back up over his face and through his hair, trying to push away the odd bustle of stress and nerves that he was carrying. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re kind of an ass?” he said, bringing his eyes back to Cas.

Cas laughed, right up in Dean’s space next to the bull. “Yeah. They have. I’m too blunt for a lot of people’s tastes, I get it. To domineering for others, made too many mistakes for the next. I’m just a bad sort,” Cas said, reminding Dean of the night they’d first met.

He was giving Dean an out, subtly. Dean could sense it. But he gave a slow shrug and ignored it.

“What if you’re just right for my tastes?”

Cas’s eyes slowly travelled around Dean’s face, searching for the lie. He didn’t respond, waiting quietly. 

“We’ve met three times now, four if you include tonight,” Dean said softly. “Every time, you’ve walked away from me before I was done. What does it take to get a guy like you to stay?”

A tiny smile tweaked up the corner of Cas’s mouth. “Well, asking tends to help,” he said.

Dean regarded Cas for just a minute more. He was crazy, clearly—they were so different. But yet, somehow, they fit, he could sense it since the moment they met—and he had a strange feeling that Cas had been able to, too. 

“Go on a date with me, Cas,” Dean asked, putting himself out there bluntly as if that was a thing people just did. “Please. At least let me buy you a burger and a beer and really, truly apologize for making so many assumptions about you.”

The small smile grew, and Cas’s hand came up from where it rested on the bull, sliding up the outside of Dean’s arm to land at the side of his neck, trailing across Dean’s fading choke-bruises with his thumb. “Only if, for that meeting, neither of us gets to put any bruises on the other. At least until the second date, anyway.”

“Deal.” Dean grinned, leaning forward the few inches that remained between them to press their lips together, soft and long. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss—

“Woah!” Cas jerked his head back, laughing despite the way his hand shot up to his face. “Jesus Christ, Dean, watch the nose!” 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> And there we have it! Short and porny, and I hope you liked it!
> 
> Let me know what you thought, fic friends. I had fun writing these two, and I struggled to stop where I did, haha!
> 
> If you are so inclined you can find me on tumblr as [MalMuses.](https://malmuses.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I love to respond to comments!
> 
> \- Mal <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "The Accidental Bull Flip"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20550665) by [HitoriAlouette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HitoriAlouette/pseuds/HitoriAlouette)


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